


In The Palm Of Your Hand (Trust)

by brofisting



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: First Time, Hand Jobs, Locker Room, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brofisting/pseuds/brofisting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mihashi whirls around, terror on his face, and Takaya thinks, "Oh."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Palm Of Your Hand (Trust)

Takaya has already walked two of the long blocks toward the train station when he realizes he left his cellphone in the clubhouse.

For a moment, he considers leaving it— it had been a particularly exhausting practice, and a long day, and no one is likely to find and take it during the night, after all. He really just wants to get home, to eat and soak and sleep— but. Cellphones are expensive, and his is less than a year old, and if it gets stolen because he's too lazy to walk an extra four blocks he knows he won't forgive himself.

Takaya sighs, irritable. Besides, with his luck, someone will need to get in touch with him before he goes back to the clubhouse tomorrow. He turns on his heel and heads back the way he came.

By the time he reaches the clubhouse again, his irritation has been beaten by exhaustion into sleepy resignation, and his feet carry him on autopilot back to the locker room where he vaguely recalls leaving his phone.

Already mentally at home, eating his mother's curry, Takaya dumps his backpack by the door and lets his eyes skate across the old wooden benches and the packed dirt floor until he sees a glint of metal— his phone lying half-hidden underneath one of the furthest benches. He's about to go grab it when a small, choked sound, too familiar, penetrates the fog of exhaustion thick in his mind, and he looks up. Takaya isn't alone.

At the far end of the locker room, on the tile floor of the showers, stands Mihashi, back to Takaya. Instantly more alert, Takaya takes a few hesitant steps towards him— Mihashi in distress isn't uncommon, but he clearly thinks he's alone, and Takaya doesn't want to alarm him. He internally debates for a few seconds whether or not he should alert Mihashi to his presence— but then it seems it's a moot point, because the next thing out of Mihashi's his mouth is Takaya's name, low and wrecked. Absently, he's aware that the hitch in Mihashi's voice is unusual, that he can't place the odd tone of voice. Takaya takes another step forward.

“Mihashi?”

Mihashi whirls around, terror on his face, and Takaya thinks, “Oh.”

 

Mihashi is still in his uniform, wrinkled white cotton barely stained from practice throwing into sharp relief his flushed face, red to the tips of his ears, and— his cock, swollen and leaking where he has it out over his underwear and the undone fly of his pants.

Takaya's is suddenly wide awake, heart pounding, blood thudding in his ears.

Mihashi's shirt is hitched up slightly, and he can see that the flush is a full body one, can see the dusting of fair hair trailing from Mihashi's cock towards his bellybutton. Can see the sticky sheen on his fingers, his hands trembling open-palmed at his sides.

Mesmerized, it is not until he follows the wrinkles of Mihashi's jersey back up to his face that Takaya realizes that Mihashi is speaking.

“—so sorry, Abe-kun, s-so sorry I'm sorry I'll leave I'll never speak to y-you again— I never meant— I'm not— please don't—”

The words are coming so quickly and quietly that he can barely parse them, and he moves toward Mihashi instinctively, over a year's habit of managing Mihashi's anxiety propelling him. He pulls up short as Mihashi actually takes several steps back, pressing himself up against the tiled wall, cowering. Shudders wrack his frame, and his eyes are bright and hazy and scared. Takaya wants to yell. Mihashi hasn't reacted to him like this for months, now. He thought they had gotten past this, thought that he had succeeded in impressing on Mihashi that he should never have to flinch from Takaya, should never have to flinch from _anybody_.

Takaya tries to think over the sound of his heart thudding in his chest, through the growing discomfort of his cock hard in his briefs. Mihashi's crying in earnest now, covering his mouth, still sputtering out apologies, and Takaya hates himself a little for the way his dick twitches at the smudged shiny fingerprint Mihashi leaves on his cheek when he shifts his hands.

Takaya's voice is rough when he finally manages to speak. “Mihashi!” It's barked, and he hopes it will startle Mihashi out of his panic, but evidently he hesitated too long, and Mihashi doesn't stop— just closes his eyes and cries harder, incoherent. Staring at him, taking in Mihashi's blond hair feathered against his face, his wet cheeks and his shaking hands, Takaya's head finally begins to clear, because: what if Mihashi doesn't come back to him this time? What if everything they had worked at, the delicate relationship they had won— what if this is what breaks it, and Mihashi never looks him in the eye again?

Just like that, a calm washes over him like an ocean wave breaking. He can suddenly no longer register the various aches of his body from the long day, can barely feel his erection, the world gone sharp and still around him. Takaya steps forward.

“Ren.”

This time, Mihashi looks up. Takaya takes another step towards him, and Mihashi makes as if he's going to move, but he has nowhere to go.

“Ren, I need you to take a deep breath.” Mihashi's cock, still hard, twitches at Takaya's second use of his first name, and Mihashi winces like it had hurt. Takaya keeps his eyes on Mihashi's face. “Just like we do in meditation— in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

Mihashi obeys, shakily: once, and then twice, and then three times at Takaya's nodded encouragement. The tears are still coming, but his shaking slows with each breath, and Takaya takes that to be a good sign.

Moving as decisively as he can, Takaya closes the rest of the distance between them, stopping less than a foot from Mihashi. Mihashi seems to shrink, even though Takaya thought he had already made himself as small as he could. Suppressing a sharp twinge of heartache, Takaya presses on.

“Ren— Mihashi—” he stumbles, because he doesn't want this time to be different from any of the other times he has asked this question. He wants Mihashi's answer to feel true, like it always has, like it has since the first time Takashi had looked him in the eye and asked. “Mihashi. Do you trust me?”

Mihashi stiffens his shoulders and won't meet his eyes. Takaya repeats the question, leaning slightly to intercept Mihashi's gaze.

Eyes caught, Mihashi's lip trembles, but this time, he nods. It's a tiny thing, a sharp jerk of his chin, but at it Takaya relaxes, feels the muscles in his shoulders go slack, like a puppet with its strings cut. That much, at least, hasn't changed. He hasn't lost that by stumbling onto something that he wasn't meant to see, hasn't fucked it all up beyond repair.

“Then _believe me_ , Mihashi, when I say that there is nothing you could do—” Takaya's own sudden knowledge that this is not a lie nearly leaves him breathless— “that would make me want to leave you.”

Mihashi shakes his head, and when he opens his mouth, Takaya can understand him again, though the words are heavy with confusion and an edge of the still-lurking hysteria. “Y-you _should_ leave me, you should _want_ to leave me—”

Takaya cuts him off, fists clenched, anger crashing back. “Don't _tell_ me what I want!” He slams his hands palm-first to the tile on either side of Mihashi's head, boxing him further in. The anger breaks the dam on the emotions that had caught inside him during his brief calm, and Takaya is suddenly shaking nearly as hard as Mihashi was a moment ago. Mihashi doesn't _understand_ , isn't paying attention— can't see that Takaya has carefully built his life up around Mihashi since the day they met, that leaving Mihashi would break something in him, now.

Finally, _finally_ , Mihashi looks him in the eye, and Takaya presses closer, as close as he can without touching. He can feel his dick aching again, can feel the bruise on his side he got earlier in the week from a stray baseball. Mihashi is silent but for the slight hitching of breath on every inhale. Takaya squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and bites his lip.

“I _want_ to practice with you every day. I _want_ you to tell me when something's wrong. I _want_ to win with you, I want to lose with you, I want to— to fucking— do schoolwork with you, and make sure you're eating enough, and feel your hands warm up when we meditate together.” Takaya opens his eyes again, and this time, he feels like his body is as light as air, like he would float away if not for Mihashi so close to him, keeping him tethered. “I want to be the only person, I want to be— to be the person whose name you call when you need someone.” He can barely hear himself, knows his voice must sound as raw as his throat feels.

His heart hurts, and as he stares into Mihashi's eyes, nearly gold and completely bloodshot, it feels like he's staring into the sun. “I want to be the person whose name you call when you _want_ someone.”

At that, Mihashi shudders violently, lets out a little “ah!” noise, his knees knocking like they might go out. For the first time since he had begun talking, Takaya looks down. Mihashi's nails are digging into the flesh of his thighs through his uniform pants, white-knuckled, and his cock is leaking steadily, purpling at the head. It looks painful, and Takaya has to drag his gaze away and ask, because he needs Mihashi to know that this isn't just impulse, just a reaction. He needs Mihashi to know that whatever this is, he means it like he's never meant _anything_ before.

Takaya moves his hands from the wall and cups Mihashi's face between them roughly, coordination nearly shot but determination keeping his grip something Mihashi could break if he wanted to, if he needed to. Mihashi feels as though he is on fire, his skin soft and damp beneath Takaya's calluses. Mihashi's eyes are on him, wild, and Takaya feels like he's the one pinned.

“Mihashi, what do you want?” It's all he can do to make it a question.

Mihashi opens his mouth but no words come out. He can feel his jaw stretch underneath his fingertips, and Takaya asks again, pleads, “Come on, come _on_ , Mihashi, tell me what you want, tell me—”

Mihashi cuts in, his voice barely more than an exhale of breath. “Y-you.”

Takaya feels like someone's burning him up from the inside out. He tips their foreheads together, his vision straining to keep Mihashi's eyes in focus, and when he goes to speak he can't help asking, can't help pushing Mihashi to commit, like he always does— “Do you want me to touch you?”

Mihashi keens, and closes his eyes, and whispers, “Y-yes.”

Their noses brush, and Takaya can feel Mihashi's breath on his lips, hot. He feels delirious. “Ask me.”

Mihashi's eyes water, and he jerks slightly, makes as though he's going to shake his head, but— with his hands on him, Takaya _feels_ the exact moment when muscle memory kicks in and Mihashi stops. Mihashi had promised, hadn't he, that he would never shake his head at him. Takaya is in awe, is completely wrecked, is so proud of Mihashi; Takaya is scared like he has never been scared before. Mihashi will never shake his head at him, no matter what, and he is going to have to spend every day for the rest of his life making himself worthy of that.

And then Mihashi breathes, “Touch me. T-takaya, please t-touch me.”

Takaya groans.

He yanks one hand away from Mihashi's face and pushes the other up into his hair. He wants— he wants to drop to his knees, wants to suck at Mihashi's cock, wants to bite at the pads of his fingertips and lick his hands clean, but— it feels like he's been waiting for years, and Takaya isn't sure he'd be able to wait the two more seconds it would take to get on the floor. Instead, he spits in his hand and closes it around Mihashi's cock, which is hot to the touch and bigger than he expected in the palm of his hand. Takaya doesn't mess around, his grip tight like he likes it when he's alone and desperate for it, and he pumps Mihashi wildly. Mihashi's eyes have gone, somehow, even wider, his irises nearly black, all pupil. His jaw is slack around soft, needy mewling sounds, kittenish and driving Takaya mad. With the hand he has in Mihashi's hair, Takaya yanks down so he and Mihashi are nose-to-nose, Mihashi's open mouth panting barely half a centimeter from his. Still jerking him, Takaya doesn't let Mihashi get any closer, though he's straining against the hand in his hair now, trying for Takaya's mouth. Takaya just lets their breaths cloud together, mouths barely brushing every time he strips Mihashi's cock, and Mihashi makes noises like he's falling apart under Takaya's hands.

It doesn't last long, and Mihashi's hips jerk once, twice, and he's coming on Takaya's stomach and all over his pants with a cry. As soon as he's done, his knees buckle for real, and he slides down the wall, breathing heavily. Takaya doesn't waste a second, his cock _hurts_ , he has never been so hard in his life— he yanks open his pants and gets his dick out, nearly popping a button, and takes himself in hand. It only takes three pumps— Mihashi's come is on his skin, Mihashi's breathing echoing in the locker room, his name on Mihashi's lips— and he just barely manages to cup his hand around the tip before he comes with a shout. It's like someone banged a gong right by his head: his ears ring and he nearly whites out for a moment, and when the ringing in his ears fades Mihashi's staring up at him from the tile, cock out, uniform wrecked, like he thinks Takaya is heaven-sent.

Takaya's knees go out, too.

 

For several minutes they just sit there, panting. Takaya isn't sure he'd be able to stand if he tried, honestly, and Mihashi doesn't seem too inclined to move, either. Takaya closes his eyes for a second, trying to get his bearings. Mihashi is radiating heat beside him, their thighs pressed together. His hand is sticky, his pants gross. The tile is dusty and chilled in places beneath his legs. He has never felt so warm.

He feels a weight at his side, and opens his eyes. Mihashi has half-slid, half scooted towards him, and Takaya looks down at him, curious. Mihashi jerks his chin up tentatively, eyes fluttering shut, and leans into Takaya's mouth.

It's soft and sweet and shaky. Takaya wants to kiss Mihashi like this every day for the rest of his life.

When Mihashi pulls away, he's looks strangely calm, like every last nerve had been wrung out of him. Takaya leans their foreheads together, blinks Mihashi's blond hair out of his eyes, tries to count the blur of his eyelashes. He thinks that soon they will have to pick themselves up, will have to shower and find something to wear that will get them home without suspicion— he has no idea how long they've been here, if his parents are wondering where he is. If it's dark out yet. He wonders if he should try and get up.

And then Mihashi smiles.

Takaya's mouth opens of its own accord and Ren's name on his tongue is a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> I came back to fanfiction after 8+ years, and I came back to gay baseball.


End file.
